Amends (Sambucky)

Chapter Fourty-Nine

"Duck!"

Sam tucked his head as he grabbed it in security, pushing for one final leap as the manor exploded behind him.

He kept himself pressed against the ground as tightly as he could, minimal debris and noise bothering him so far out from the fire. As far as he knew, every guest had escaped to safety as well somewhere in the forest of a backyard.

He only hoped Bucky did the same.

"Mr. Levin!"

Sam begrudgingly lifted his head to find a crowd of people further away. A woman made her way over with waving hands.

"Please!" Mary came running, "A man needs your help. He's-,"

"Okay, okay. I hear you," Sam assured, despite his headache and heavy body. He hated to admit that he wasn't only sleep deprived, also a bit sore, "Show me."

Sam followed her with half of his being, unable to stop his mind from wavering. Bucky was strong, and Sam knew that he would have gotten out before the bomb went off.

And yet, here he was, worried anyway.

"My God," Sam whispered as he kneeled before the wailing man, disturbed at the sight of his disfigurement. But also deep down, relieved.

It wasn't Bucky.

"Please, help—," the man cut himself off with a cry, clinging to Sam's arm in a way that made his heart beat rapidly in his chest, "—DO SOMETHING!"

Sam flinched back out of habit, but he began searching for the source of the man's wounds. That's when he noticed that his right leg was completely swollen and bloodied— his veins visible in a sickly black color.

"Hello?! Milo, do something!" Mary prompted, though Sam was unsure how to react.

"Has anyone called 911?" he grasped at straws, feeling the stare of the dying man before him.

Upon hearing the response that there was no cell service, Sam quickly realized that the stares of everyone else were also upon him. Like a test he couldn't pass.

"Why aren't you moving?! Help him!" Mary shrieked.

"I-I can't!" Sam spoke so that the man couldn't hear, but Mary was having none of it.

"You're an ex field medic; you gotta know something! He's dying!"

"I don't! I—," Sam paused, his anxiety swelling in his chest and hindering his breathing, "Wait, what?"

"Help him!"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to sort through his tired mind, "No no no, I'm not a field medic— who told you that?"

"You did! We were drunk, and you-," Mary stopped briefly, her heavy breathing slowing down, "—hurry!"

"I was never drunk. I didn't drink," Sam defended, "Remind me who you are again?"

"I already told you— my name's Mary-," she cut herself off.

"Like hell, Mary. I didn't tell you, or anyone else here, that I used to be a field medic. So I'll ask you one more time: who are you?" Sam mustered up the strongest response he could, "And what do you want?"

Mary looked at him with pleading eyes, before her face fell flat. Within seconds, her entire demeanor dropped.

"Fine. But this would have been easier if you cooperated," she reached for her pocket, causing Sam to immediately back away and grab his gun.

"Stay back," Sam warned as he eyed the syringe in her hand, "I don't want any trouble."

But as quickly as she had pulled the syringe out, she had stabbed it into the neck of the woman beside her. The two began to fight as Sam watched in horror; the man on the ground's cries getting quieter and quieter.